Christmas at Darcy House

Elizabeth swallowed hard. It was difficult to admit to her own wantonness, but she would not allow him to labor under a delusion. “Sir, had I found the kiss less than desirable, you would know it.”

As he smiled, his fingers touched his swollen lip gingerly. “I suppose I would.” She would not apologize for striking him yesterday; he deserved it. “May I hope, then, that you found my kisses acceptable?”

She shivered; something in his humble, almost plaintive, tone touched her deeply. But still she was not at all prepared to give her unqualified approval. She did not want to give him the impression that she was prepared to accept his offer. “Yes…they were quite…pleasant.” It was a ridiculously inadequate word to describe the effect they had had on her, but he gave her a slow smile, seemingly encouraged by the vague compliment.

A drop of water hit her sleeve. When Elizabeth glanced up, another drop hit her cheek. “Oh no! It is raining.”

“That is a shame,” Mr. Darcy said with an expression of disappointment. No doubt he had planned for additional kisses. “Will you allow me to accompany you back to Gracechurch Street? I do not want you to get caught in a downpour.”

Why did the thought of m

ore time—even ten more minutes—with Mr. Darcy give her such an illicit thrill? Truth be told, the thrill had always been there, but only now did she allow herself to acknowledge and indulge it. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

“Might I wait upon you tomorrow and join you for another walk?”

“Yes, and if you are very fortunate, I may even tell you what time I plan to venture out, so you need not lurk on my uncle’s doorstep.”

He laughed.

The downpour held off as they hurried back to Gracechurch Street. They spoke of inconsequential topics, but Elizabeth was struck by how unexpectedly pleasant she had found the entire walk to be. The taste of his kisses lingered on her lips. She should not have allowed such liberties, but he was proving difficult to resist. Now that she knew of his interest in her—and his love—it was doubly hard to resist the urge to touch and be touched.

She was well aware that he had offered her marriage, and she had not yet responded. Earlier in the day she had been tempted to throw the offer back in his face no matter the consequences, but now she was pleased she had not announced an irrevocable decision. She was grateful he had not pressed her for an answer today; she was vacillating more than ever before. She had received his words and his kisses with great pleasure but knew she should not make the mistake of deciding her entire future based on a pleasant walk.

If there were a chance she might accept Mr. Darcy, then perhaps she should give her aunt and uncle an opportunity to know him better. Improved acquaintance might soften their opinion of him, and they might give her the benefit of their advice.

They arrived at the Gardiners’ house, huddled under a little portico outside the door. This was the point at which he should bid her adieu, but he had made no move to disengage her arm from his and peered down at her with something resembling tenderness.

She swallowed hard. “M-Mr. Darcy, would you perhaps like to come in for a while and enjoy a cup of tea before you must venture out in the rain once more?”

He froze for a moment, evidently surprised by the invitation. “Certainly. I thank you.”

They were greeted by Shaw, whose eyes widened slightly at the sight of Mr. Darcy in Elizabeth’s company, but she took their outer garments without comment. Elizabeth led the way to the drawing room, surprised to hear more than one male voice. Her aunt and uncle must have visitors. Only right before she opened the drawing room door did she recognize the second, unexpected male voice, but by then it was too late; she had already turned the knob.

She pushed the door open to reveal the Gardiners conversing with their guest. “Hello, Lizzy,” said her uncle. “Your father has just arrived.”

Chapter Ten

Elizabeth’s expression suggested that she had not expected to see her father in the Gardiners’ drawing room. Darcy was scarcely less surprised. Mr. Gardiner must have sent Mr. Bennet an express immediately after the events of the previous day for him to have arrived so speedily.

“Papa!” Elizabeth hesitated on the threshold for a moment, throwing a strained look over her shoulder at Darcy, but there was no escaping their fate. Then she rushed forward to embrace her father.

As she vacated the doorway, Darcy became visible to the room’s occupants. Mr. Gardiner started, glaring at Darcy with his fists clenched. Mrs. Gardiner gave him a cold look full of contempt. When Elizabeth’s father released his daughter, he viewed Darcy with the enthusiasm one would greet an unexpected rash. His expression suggested that, had he been younger, he might have challenged Darcy to a duel.

Darcy could hardly blame them. He would feel the same in their place should he be confronted with a man who had treated Georgiana in such an infamous manner. He had made a grievous error in judgment and was supremely fortunate that Elizabeth seemed inclined to forgive him.

Elizabeth seated herself on the sofa beside her father, but Darcy remained hovering in the doorway, unsure if he would be invited to sit. However, invited or not, he owed everyone an apology. Darcy took a deep breath. “Mr. Bennet, I must beg your pardon for the insult I offered to your daughter.”

The other man raised an eyebrow. “Why beg my forgiveness, Mr. Darcy? Apparently, you have Lizzy’s.”

Elizabeth colored. “Papa—”

Darcy wanted to snap at the man for causing his daughter such mortification and reminded himself that his own actions were responsible for the current situation.

This could take some time; Darcy seated himself without waiting for an invitation. “Miss Bennet has been quite generous in forgiving my misjudgment,” Darcy said through gritted teeth. “I feel very fortunate to have made progress in securing any measure of her good opinion.”

“Misjudgment?” Bennet growled. “That is a pretty word to describe laying your hands on her person.”

Darcy narrowed his focus to Elizabeth’s father, stifling the impulse to bark out an angry retort. Digging his nails into the palms of his hands, he chose his words carefully. “I have made what amends I can. I have made her the offer of my hand.”